


let your colors bleed and blend with mine

by sergeant_angel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Young Avengers (Comics)
Genre: A tiny bit of smut, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Gen, Time Travel, not really explicit but it's there just fyi, three years later look i posted it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 05:11:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sergeant_angel/pseuds/sergeant_angel
Summary: Kate travels back in time, falls in love with her soulmate, meets a personal hero--everything is great, right?Of course it isn't. Not when your soulmate is going to become the Winter Soldier, not when Howard Stark is your only ticket home.A longer version ofthissoulmate short





	let your colors bleed and blend with mine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ring Them Bells](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4029883) by [sergeant_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sergeant_angel/pseuds/sergeant_angel). 



> Hey all! So this is the long-ago promised feature length version of one of my soulmate shorts-"In Retrospect" and "Hindsight" from Ring Them Bells. The bulk of this was written a few years ago, and I just decided to polish it and post it, so it's probably still pretty rough. It's readable, and hopefully satisfying. some of the pacing might be weird because i intended to have more scenes or fill them differently, but can't remember what the plan was now  
> No major warnings, there's some sexytimes but it's not super explicit?  
> also there's some Russian in this but as I mentioned before, having written this eons ago, I have no idea where I got the translations or if they are accurate in any way

The moral of the following story is never offer to help Tony Stark.

Simple as that.

* * *

Kate thinks something along those lines as she gets flung—literally, _flung_ —out of the glowing energy ball, skinning her knees and scraping up a palm pretty badly in an attempt to slow her momentum.

She’s pretty unsuccessful in that she winds up slamming against a wall hard enough to see stars for a minute, and her hearing gets jarred, because it takes a minute for her ears to process shouts and footsteps headed towards her, which turns into hands picking her up, which turns into someone punching her stomach, which, wow, _rude._

One punch turns into several, and at least they aren’t very _good_ at punching, which is a mark in the column for not being professionals.

And then, finally, the shouts filter through her shaken-not-stirred grey matter. _It’s a trick! A dirty Kraut trick! She’s a spy!_

Thankfully, her systems are coming back online, enough for her to catch the next kick aimed for her, crowding the guy and overbalancing him; one of his friends takes another shot that she almost dodges; she manages to get close enough to shove the heel of her hand into his nose.

It’s then Kate realizes she has a rescuer, or an attempted rescuer, anyway, because there is a big guy beating on a much smaller guy. There’s a part of Kate screaming to cut and run, to get out of here, but whatever portal she fell through is closed and she could use an ally.

Plus, why are you beating on a guy who is _literally_ smaller than she is? Ohohoho _no._

Big Guy isn’t even paying attention to her anymore, which makes it easy enough land a kick to the back of his knee and get a few fingers in his jugular and drag him off of the tiny guy. It’s not nice, not at all, but Kate used all of her nice reserves getting to this point and doesn’t really care.

“You okay?” she asks the guy, and someone in the back of her brain is shouting at her but Kate can’t quite make it out through the headache that’s steadily building.

“Had worse. Never seen a girl—I mean, a dame—a lady, ah, fight like that. Are you a spy?”

“A spy for who?” Kate’s missing something and she’s going to feel really dumb when she sees it.

“The Germans. Or the Japanese, I guess. The Italians.”

“What? No. I’m American.”

“What was that—ball of light thing, then?”

“I don’t know. A portal of some sort. I—“

Holy shit.

_Holy shit._

The information fighting its way through Kate’s headache and potential minor concussion has arrived, screeching at a really unfortunate volume level.

Because that is _Steve Rogers_.

And he’s _tiny._

And he asked her if she was a spy.

And—

“Mother of God,” her knees flare with pain and it takes her a minute to realize it’s because she’s cracked them on the pavement when her legs gave out. “I think I just traveled back in time.”

* * *

It should maybe not be so surprising that Steve Rogers is unflappable.

Maybe it’s just surprising because the really weird shit hasn’t even started happening to him, and he’s taking this all in stride. That, or he thinks she’s crazy. Or he thinks her brains were jostled out of her head in the fight. He wouldn’t exactly be wrong.

He loans her some clothes—apologizing profusely since they’re his clothes, and he gets a little red when he says he doesn’t want to think about what Bucky’s sister would say if he went and asked her for dame’s clothes, stammering through the whole statement. Kate has to struggle not to laugh, because first of all: she fits into Steve’s clothes _he is so tiny now_ , and second of all, he’s adorable, Kate wishes there was some non-scandalous 1940s way to say _I don’t even care if you wear women’s clothes you’re adorable can I carry you around in my pocket for the next three hours_ but there’s not, so.

She doesn’t feel like laughing when she goes to change.

Because her soulmark?

It’s gone.

She has a brief moment where she thinks she’s going to hyperventilate, where the world spins, right before she shoves out of the room she was changing in to get to better light, just to make sure, you know?

Which is a good move, because it’s still there.

Kate’s breath exits her in a whoosh.

It’s just—not colored in anymore?

Kate’s mark has always been colored in, from the day she was born. It’s never made sense. Marks are supposed to fill in when you say the words to your soulmate; nobody’s ever said _Who was the idiot who said I don’t like you?_ to her but it has always been a nice vibrant blue.

She still has it, though, that’s the important thing, so she hasn’t altered time or wound up in an entirely different reality.

She runs her fingers over the words, doubling over and trying to fight back the panic that’s making her head throb and her lungs work incorrectly.

“Miss, are you all right?” Steve’s at her side, ushering her to a chair. “Does time-travel usually disorient you so much?”

“What? No, we don’t—um, that was accidental time travel. That was not supposed to happen. Remember this, because one day it’s going to be important: Tony Stark is a jerk.”

“I’ll do that,” he smiles at her. “My friend should be home soon, he’s a lot better at stitching people up than I am—stitches me up all the time.”

“Yeah?” Kate presses her hand to her shoulder. It’s weird that she’s thrown by her soulmark being normal, for once. “You like picking fights, then?”

“Hey, I was helping you,” he protests. “Nobody should push somebody else around like that just for being different.”

“But people do all the time, don’t they? Tell me the truth, do you go a week without getting into a fight?”

Tiny pocket-person Steve Rogers smiles at her, then frowns, and it takes Kate a moment to realize that it’s because the cut on her forehead is bleeding again, dripping down her face in what she hopes is a horror movie-worthy manner.

She’s opening her mouth to ask Steve for a towel or something, when the door swings open.

“Sorry, Stevie, didn’t realize you had company,” the newcomer says.

“Bucky, this is—I never caught your name?”

Bucky Barnes is at the door and Kate is only just now connecting _friend who I live with_ to _Bucky Barnes_ to _Winter Soldier_.

He’s standing in the doorway, looking puzzled at the tableau before him, and suddenly, quite suddenly, a number of things become clear to Kate:

First thing: this isn’t even vaguely amusing anymore, she’s traveled back in time and these two men are going to go through strange and horrible things in the next few years—war and medical experiments and _brainwashing,_ Jesus—

Two: Does she tell them? _Back to the Future_ marathons and reading _The Sound of Thunder_ haven’t prepared her for this.

Three: Bucky Barnes is an adorable cocksure little shit. You can tell by the way he stands, easy and relaxed, not concerned with entrances and exits and sight lines, his jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder, tie loose and collar open; it’s something Kate has never, not once, seen from the Bucky she sort of knows. It makes points one and two more important.

Four: This explains pretty much everything about why Steve doesn’t like to talk to her, why Barnes avoids her like the plague in the future, why they share a polite but firm distaste of her—because obviously, she knew what was to come and never warned them. She understands. Honestly, she kind of doesn’t like herself right now.

“Well,” she sighs, shaking her head. “At least now I know _why_ you hate me so much.”

Bucky looks at her like she’s hit him upside the head with a baseball bat before he finds his tongue. “Who was the idiot who said I don’t like you?”

Kate thinks her jaw might be somewhere by her knee.

“My soulmark just came in _three hours ago_ ,” his voice is low and calm and a little dangerous. “How is this possible?”

“Um. Time travel?”

Kate’s not sure what it says about Bucky that he doesn’t even bat an eye at that.

“How far in the future are you from, anyway?” Bucky asks her a few minutes later, the patchwork contents of a first-aid kid scattered across the rickety table.

“I’d rather not say,” Kate winces as he places another stitch to her temple. His large hands are surprisingly gentle and Kate has to keep reminding herself to not stare at his left hand.

She’s mostly failing.

“Where’s your time machine?”

“It’s not like that,” Kate says, then manages to process the statement. “Fan of Wells?”

“Oh, you know,” Bucky shrugs. “He’s not my favorite. I like the concept, though.”

Bucky Barnes is a sci-fi fan. Who knew?

“Man, Bradbury and Asimov are going to blow your mind. And Star Trek? Forget about it.”

His eyebrows raise a little. “I don’t think I understood half of that.”

“Authors. And—you know what, never mind.” She worries her lip between her teeth, trying to figure out what to do. What she should do. If she’s stuck here forever.

“Stop that. You’re going to split it again.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me, you’re the one that’s going to be miserable with your lip bleeding.”

“I feel like you’ve had this conversation before.”

“Once a week, with Steve,” he shrugs, smiling as he ties off the last stitch. “There you go. Good as new.” He crosses his arms and sits back in the chair, regarding her through half-closed eyes. “Could I see your mark? Don’t know what the etiquette is when you come from.”

She debates it for a minute, tilting her head and staring right back at him. “Sure,” she finally says, unbuttoning the top few buttons of her borrowed shirt, smirking when his eyes widen. “Calm down,” she chides, tugging the collar down and over so he can see the vibrant blue words that follow her collarbone from her shoulder to her sternum, _Who was the idiot who said I don’t like you?_

“So,” Bucky reaches forward like he wants to run his fingers across the words before pulling himself up short, his hand hovering in the air. “Who _is_ the idiot who said I didn’t like you?”

“Honestly, it was more of an assumption.”

“I act like I don’t like you in the future?” his eyes are curious.

“Well,” Kate lets the rest of the sentence die on her tongue. Bucky stares at her for a moment before sitting back in his seat. “You have lovely penmanship,” she offers, trying to fill the silence.

“Yours is pretty awful,” he smirks at her. “Haven’t had much chance to look at it, though.”

“Could _I_ see, then?”

“If you don’t mind me takin’ my shirt off,” he winks at her, raises his eyebrows and Kate thinks he’s half-sure she’ll say that she does mind.

Joke’s on you, Barnes.

“I can think of worse things,” she says with a shrug, and he grins at her outright, unbuttoning his dress shirt and stripping it off, laying it neatly next to the gauze.

The first thing she notices is how skinny he is. He’s a lot bigger than Steve at the moment, but he’s nowhere near the solid mass of deadly muscle that slinks through the tower. Kate has a very sharp suspicion that Bucky Barnes doesn’t eat enough, and she wonders how much of that is because he is hardwired to take care of Steve before himself, and how much of it is that they’re probably just broke.

It takes her a minute to find it, her lazy scrawl of _Well, at least now I know why you dislike me so much_. wrapping around the upper portion of his bicep.

On his _left arm_.

Kate is filled with the sudden, irrational desire to find whoever is in charge of the universe and scratch their eyes out.

“Kate?” Bucky reaches for her, grips her arm in his left hand “You all right, doll?”

Well, he thinks that’s what he says, because her ears are buzzing and it’s hard to hear.

How is she supposed to do this? If she ever gets back home she is stabbing Tony Stark right in his—

Right in his—

“Stark.” Kate stands, nodding her head. “Yeah, I need to find Howard Stark. I’m going to ask him for help, and then I’m going to punch him.”

* * *

It takes a day to figure out where Howard Stark lives—Kate has never appreciated the internet more in her life—and then it’s just a matter of getting a cab and hoping Howard is as smart as everyone says he is.

Bucky catches her around the waist, drawing her close. His fingers brush over her mark and her hand circles around her words on his arm. She’d never understood it, not really, the way soulmates’ hands always found their words, or the way having Bucky touch them sends something warm through her veins. Not something sexual; something—like home.

 She doesn’t even need to look to know which words are under her fingertips— _guess, know,_ and _like_.

“If this doesn’t work, stick around?” his eyes dart over her face like he’s drinking her in. “We’ll find a place for you to stay.”

“If I can’t figure something out, you’re kind of stuck with me,” she tries for wry and almost manages to not sound completely terrified. “I’ll expect dates. Dinners. Movies.”

“Sounds like a hardship,” Bucky is very obviously trying to not look at her legs in the dress she’s borrowed from his sister. “Don’t know if I could manage.”

“Bucky,” she pushes up on her toes, her hand braced on his chest. “Be safe?”

“You bet,” he promises, brow furrowed, but then she’s kissing him and his broad hand is hot on her waist.

Kate starts missing him before the kiss is over.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, telling the housekeeper that you’re a woman from the future does not gain you entry into the Stark domicile.

Saying that you met Mr. Stark a few months ago, deliberately putting your hand on your stomach, and saying “I feel a little ill,” however, gets you ushered _right_ in.

“I’m sorry,” Howard says when he sees her. “Do I know you?”

“Howard,” Kate puts on her best whiney debutante voice. “You don’t remember me? That magical evening in—“

Someone snorts behind Howard, and Kate cranes her head to see a perfectly coiffed woman with killer lipstick.

“Well, that’s not important,” Kate soldiers on, putting her hand on her stomach. Howard’s eyes pop, following the movement. “You see, something wonderful—“

The woman coughs.

“I don’t—I—I—“ Howard stammers. “Peg, uh, can you—“

“Wait, Peggy?” Kate drops the voice and the postural affectation she’d put on. “Not Peggy Carter?”

“Why does it matter?” Peggy says, clipped British accent and _holy crap Peggy Carter_.

“I am a _huge_ fan,” Kate gushes, shoving around Howard Stark to pump Peggy’s hand. “You’re kind of a hero of mine—“

“Wait, wait, back up,” Howard shoves between the two women, much to Peggy’s apparent relief. “You and I—“ he waves his finger back and forth between them.

“Oh, no. Sorry. Your housekeeper wouldn’t let me in until I pretended you’d gotten me pregnant. She didn’t believe me when I said I was from the future.”

“Well,” Howard Stark looks dazed. “Naturally.”

* * *

Howard can’t figure it out that week, or the next. He gives her a job as his assistant and makes up some bull story about her being his half-sister to tamp down the chatty neighbors.

Kate is fairly certain Howard actually likes her; she is equally certain it’s due in large part to the fact that she swears at him and calls him on his bullshit. He’s so like Tony it’s creepy.

And, of course, Bucky calls on her at least twice a week.

They don’t kiss again until he takes her to Coney Island. They compete with each other on the skill games—they’ve both got very good aim—and then some ass makes a crack about her and she slugs him.

Bucky is a solid mass at her back, arms crossed. “My soulmate can punch harder than all of you,” he informs the guy’s friends. “I’d take off about now.”

The first guy has a bloody nose.

The friends take off.

Bucky is practically beaming at her as they ride the Wonder Wheel, and she kisses him because she can, because she wants to, because she might be falling in love with him.

Who knows.

* * *

“Is this for Project Rebirth?” she asks a month into her time displacement.

“What?”

“Project Rebirth.”

“How do you— _possibly—_ “

“Dude. Time. Travel.”

“This is a top-secret project—“

“Kind of like the Manhattan Project?”

Howard Stark makes an entirely undignified squawk.

And that’s how she becomes an S.S.R. operative.

* * *

“You enlisted,” Kate can keep the frown off of her face, but she can’t keep it out of her voice.

“I did,” Bucky says, gaze steady and unflinching. “You’re from the future, so I gotta think the future’s something worth fighting for.”

He looks good in the uniform. Kate’s not going to deny that. He looks _damn_ good, but sexiness does not negate presumed death and actual torture.

That’s the moment she decides. Whatever happens, whatever’s _supposed_ to happen—she doesn’t have the right to make that decision for him.

“Bucky,” she starts. “There’s something I need to tell you—“

“No there isn’t,” he cuts her off. “That’s the face you make when you’re thinking about telling me about the future, and you can’t do that, or you wouldn’t be able to come back and be here right now.”

“You need to stop reading _The Time Machine_. There are other theories about time travel, Barnes,” she twines her arms around his neck.

“But they haven’t been written yet, have they?” he points out.

“Bucky, when you get your orders—“

“Bishop. I don’t want to know.”

“Why?” she snaps, shoving away from him. “You don’t know what’s going to happen and _I do_. It’s—it’s—“

“It’s what brings us together. Back together. Yeah? In the future. Whatever happens now directly affects what you do in the future, and changing what happens now will change what happens then—maybe it won’t happen. Maybe you change things, or tell me something, and you don’t get sent back, and we never meet, and—whatever happens between then and now? It _has_ to happen.”

Kate stares at him. It feels like something in her chest is being smashed to pieces.

“You _idiot_ ,” is what comes out of her mouth. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Well, up until right now I liked you a helluva lot. A future without you? Doesn’t seem worth much.”

She can’t breathe, can’t move, can barely think, can’t even see Bucky three feet in front of her—not this Bucky, anyway. All she can see is the Winter Soldier, glowering at her, silent and deadly, in the shadows of the tower.

“When you get your orders,” she starts again, and this time Bucky’s the one who backs away, hands up.

“No,” he says. “I’m not going to do this with you, Katie. I’m not. You want to have a conversation with me that doesn’t involve time-travel, let me know.”

His shoulders are square, back straight as he walks away from her.

* * *

Bucky writes the first letter. That’s the most surprising thing thus far; Bucky isn’t a grudge-holder. She is. She is a champion grudge-holder, just…not about this.

He doesn’t mention what Kate thinks of as The Fight, so she doesn’t either.  They just write. They just make up as best one can on paper.

When she sees him after basic training, he’s already got secrets in his eyes, and he holds her like he might never again.

He’s staring.

“What?” she pats her hair. “Do I have something--?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “You’re perfect.”

They’re in line for movie tickets and Kate can’t think of anything she wants to do less than see a movie.

“Do you wanna go someplace quieter?” Bucky asks, and, yeah, soulmate.

There’s a swanky hotel, and Bucky’s hands gripping her thighs tight as he presses her up against a wall; hesitation as they fumble with zippers and buttons; Kate shivering as Bucky drags his mouth along his words on her chest.

It’s incredible, she feels like she’s on fire and she can’t touch enough of his skin, can’t grip the words on his arm tight enough.

There’s after, panting and sweaty, Kate sprawled across Bucky’s chest, playing with his dog tags, when Kate’s struck with the thought of losing him, with the _certainty_ of losing him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“You’re going to go overseas and forget me,” she says, and he thinks she means something else instead of the suffocating truth.

“Hey,” he cups her cheek. “I could never forget you. You’re my soulmate, aren’t you? I couldn’t forget you if I tried.”

* * *

Italy isn’t a picnic—it’s damp and full of people not getting enough sleep or food operating under the stress of it being, you know _World War Two—_ but Bucky’s hand trailing down her bare back has its charms.

“Missed you,” he says earnestly.

“Yeah,” she sighs, rolling on to her side, rubbing her words on Bucky’s arm. “I missed you too.”

_Missed_ is such a inadequate word. It doesn't convey the fear, the dread, none of it. She knew that Bucky was alive, that Steve would find him, that this wasn't when they lost him, when he lost himself, not yet, but still,  _still_. It made her sick; nights she would lay awake and hate how helpless she was here. 

“Steve’s going to be asking the boys to be part of some team,” his hand strokes down her side. “I gotta say yes, Katie.”

“I know,” she looks at him, still gaunt, a newborn darkness lurking behind his eyes. She knows this darkness; she knows it fully grown in the eyes of the Bucky back home. “I don’t like it, but I know.”

“I love you,” he says without warning. “They had me strapped to that table and I said to myself that if I ever saw you again I’d tell you. I’d tell you once for every day I was in that place for a start.”

“Love isn’t the issue,” she says, clenching her jaw, swallowing all of the teary, shaky things inside her. “I—I love you. Yeah, that’s—that’s a thing. But it doesn’t matter if—“

“Hey,” he cups her cheek, seeming lighter again. “You love me? That’s enough. That’s what matters. That’ll see me through whatever’s over here. I believe that.”

She doesn’t.

This is where it starts, the Winter Soldier. He lingers in the corners of Bucky's eyes and in the shadow if his smile. Something hollow and deadly and also, somehow, achingly familiar. The Bucky she first met, a man made of shadows and blood. She misses that man, she thinks, and she'll miss the man in front of her when he becomes the Winter Soldier. Love and pain wrap like vines around her throat and it's all Kate can do to hold Bucky to her, to tell him how much she loves him.

* * *

Kate is pretty sure Bucky keeps trying to catch her eye at the meeting the next day, where Howard is showing off some of the tools he’s giving the Commandos.

Kate is…well, she’s kind of ignoring Bucky.

In favor of staring at the Commandos.

One Commando, actually.

“Buck, will you tell your soulmate to stop?” Jim hisses to Bucky. “Hey, lady. You got a problem?”

“Sorry,” she shakes her head, trying to focus on what she’s here for, belatedly realizing that the stares he’s used to getting from American women probably don’t usually wind up being friendly. It’s just… “You just—you look familiar. Which is _incredibly_ not possible.”

Jim stares back at her. “Nah, I’m getting that, too. You from Fresno?”

“Hardly. New York. And even if I was, it wouldn’t—wait, Fresno?”

“Yeah, you got family there, or something?”

“No—well, like what are the odds, right?”

Jim looks at Bucky, who shrugs. Jim, in turn, shrugs at her, sticking his hand out.

“Jim. Jim Morita.”

Kate reaches for his hand and then freezes. “Jim.” She repeats. “Jim _Morita_?”

She looks to Bucky, as if asking _is he_ kidding? Bucky just looks bewildered. Kate stops staring at Jim Morita’s face and looks at the whole of him.

She snatches her hand back.

“ _Oh my God_.”

“Bishop?” Stark hollers. “You all right there?”

“Peg, is that room still mostly soundproof?”

Carter nods, just as perplexed, as Kate storms off to the soundproof-ish testing room, and screams.

When she’s done, she makes sure her uniform is tidy, and strides back out.

Stark and Peggy are used to this sort of thing, they’ve ignored her. Jim goddamn Morita stares at her, looking by turns angry, confused, and dumbfounded.

Kate looks nothing but composed as she walks back over to the two men. Takes a deep breath.

“Are you kidding me?” she snaps. Maybe not so calm. “ _Oh my god._ All that crap about how you _just did your part_ and you’re one of the Howling Commandos? And you’ve _met_ me!” Kate knows she is unfairly outraged. “And you—you—you _never said anything!_ ”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Jim—Jim? Your name is James!—finally snaps at her.

“You, uh, might not know her yet,” Bucky mutters. “She’s from the future.”

Jim _Morita_ looks like he’s about to scoff, and then looks at her. Really looks at her.

And his breath chokes off somewhere in the back of his throat, raising a shaking finger to point at her. Or maybe her face.

“No,” he says. “Hell _no_. What? Are you—is this—“ he throws up his hands and storms out into the hallway. “ _What the hell_.”

Kate is frozen before realizing that she should maybe go after him.

“What--?” Steve begins.

“They’re—related?” Peggy guesses.

“Judging by her age and the delayed reaction, probably a granddaughter. Same mouth and everything,” she can hear Howard say. “What? I thought everybody realized that.”

* * *

“You’re from _the future_ ,” Jim Morita says flatly. “Sure.”

“I know how it sounds.”

“I don’t think you do.” He shakes his head. “So I guess I make it out of the war, then, if I’ve got kids.”

“Yeah.”

“But your name’s Bishop?”

“You have a daughter.”

“Oh,” Jim’s face breaks into a small smile. “Always wanted a little girl.” He sits with his own thoughts for a moment before coming out of his reverie. “So, what can you tell me about the future?”

“Invest in Amazon,” Kate says. “And when stark Industries starts to tank, buy stock. It’ll be worth it.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Am I still alive?”

Kate nods.

“Come visit me when you get back, okay kid?”

“What should I call you, anyway?” Kate finally asks. “I mean, now that I know who you are, it feels weird to call you Jim. Which, by the way, I just want to say, you have _never_ gone by Jim _._ ”

He shrugs.

“Look, if you don’t tell me what to call you I’m going to call you Jimmy.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Look, dude, I fell through a hole from the future. Let’s not bet on what I would and wouldn’t do.”

* * *

“Howard,” she snaps. “This is important.”

“Right, right. Important. I’m listening.”

“If this works—in my desk, there’s a letter addressed to Bucky, but it’s for him and Steve, okay? It’s important that they read it before the mission in the mountains with the train. That _you_ read it, too, because Bucky won’t, Bucky will be a stubborn ass about it, so _make sure he knows._ Okay?”

“Mission, mountains, train. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’m serious, Howard. This is important. If this works—“

“It won’t matter if it works if you don’t _go_ through the portal, Bishop. It’s not that stable. Go.”

* * *

“Ow,” Kate says from the floor. “Stark, that was literally the worst idea you’ve had in months and you thought up Spam mash.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Hawkeye?”

Kate’s head snaps up. “Wrong Stark.”

“What?” Tony helps her to her feet. “What do you mean?”

“How long have I been gone?” she ignores the question.

“What?”

“How. Long. Was. I. Gone?”

“Like ten minutes, I just called Cap and Clint—did you change your clothes? What are you wearing?”

“Ten _minutes_?” Kate barely keeps the hysteria out of her voice. “Ten minutes?”

For the first time, Tony looks worried. “How long was it for you?”

“A year? A year and a half? She starts to hyperventilate. “Oh my god. Oh. Oh my god.”

“What happened?” Clint is through the door first. “Oh, hey, girly-girl. Stark was saying you fell through some portal thing—what are you wearing?”

Steve gets a good look at her and all of the color drains out of his face. “Clint, Stark—could I have the room?”

“What? No,” Clint starts. “Kate, are you—“

“It wasn’t a discussion, Clint. You and Tony. Out. Now.”

They leave—Kate _thinks_ they leave—she’s too busy hearing _ten minutes_ echo in her head. Ten minutes.

“Kate?” Steve’s hand lands on her shoulder, squeezing. “Hawkeye?”

“I’m okay,” she says. “Ten minutes. Oh, God. Fuck time travel, Steve. Fuck it so hard.” She takes a deep breath. “So you’ve known me this whole time?”

“More or less,” Steve looks more stony than sheepish.

“I’m guessing you guys didn’t listen to Howard, judging by your glare.”

“Howard?”

“Yeah, you know. The letter I left for you, care of Stark.”

“What letter?”

Steve’s face is blank, and for the first time in a while, Kate feels like she’s going to be sick. And it means there’s a question she doesn’t want to ask but needs the answer to.

“Bucky? He’s furious, isn’t he?”

Steve’s face is closed, his eyes narrow.

“Steve?”

“He doesn’t remember you, Kate. Some days I’m not even sure he remembers me.”

She only passes out for a minute.

* * *

 “I hated you, you know,” Steve says conversationally. “The first time you met me.”

“I got that impression, yeah,” Kate smiles a little ruefully at him. “I get it, now, but I still resent you a little for it.”

He nods at her and they sit in silence for a few moments, sipping their coffee.

“I just—I don’t know what to do, you know? Do I hang around him—do I leave him alone? I can’t tell him, there’s no reason for him to believe someone just telling him facts about his life with no proof.”

“You don’t—“ Steve’s voice is tentative, like the first thaw of spring. “You’re not mad at him?”

“Mad at him?” Kate’s eyes narrow in confusion. “Steve, why the hell would I be _mad_ at _Bucky_? I’m sad. And yeah, I’m mad, but I’m more mad at me and Tony and Hydra—I’m not mad at Bucky at all. I just—“ she shifts, spinning her cup between her hands. “It seems selfish to want him to remember me when there are so many other things he needs and wants.”

“Kate, he wants to remember you, of course he—“

Kate raises her hand to silence Steve. “He doesn’t even know that he _should_ want to remember me, Steve. It would be different if—“ she unconsciously rubs where her shirt covers her mark, shaking her head.

The silence hangs heavy around them. “He knew he had a mark,” Steve finally says, quiet. “He knows where it was. He _does_ want to remember, maybe just not in the way you want.”

“At this point, Steve, I just want him to be happy. If I don’t get to be a part of that happiness—“ she can’t finish the thought. “I’m not that selfish. He deserves happiness.”

* * *

“You can hit me harder, Hawkeye,” Bucky says, popping off of the mat.

“It’s sparring. I don’t—“

“I’m a supersoldier. I can take it.”

“Well, I don’t want to break my hand on your face.”

“C’mon,” he grins at her, bouncing on his feet, full of an eagerness she hasn’t seen in a while. “Come at me.”

“Ugh, you’re such a weirdo,” she rolls her eyes.

He jumps her from behind, arms banded around her and she tips him over her shoulder. Bucky rolls up on his feet and she lands a kick to his chest; he catches her foot the next time and she throws her weight into him, her free leg catching the backs of his knees and they both go down, Bucky taking the brunt of the fall.

“See?” he pants, grinning. “Tell me that didn’t feel better.”

“Okay, fine. You’re right.” Kate attempts to roll off of him and only winds up sprawled across him in a different way, both of them laughing.

“Need a hand?” he smirks, hands at her waist, levering her up a little.

Something in his face changes. It’s serious, laser-focused on her. His eyes drift down to her lips, so close and Kate’s breath catches behind her breastbone.

His hand slides up her back, pulls her hair off of her sweaty neck. It’s weirdly intimate, strangely seductive, heat is pouring off of Bucky and she closes her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by how present he is.

When she opens her eyes again, he’s staring at her, and for a moment she thinks something flickers, some spark of recognition, and his eyes drop to her chest.

“Oh,” his eyes snap back up to hers as he disentangles himself from her. “I, uh. I wasn’t trying to—your soulmark, it’s, um,” he looks everywhere but at her now, at her shirt gaping slightly to reveal a blue script that he doesn’t recognize and eventually, she thinks, this has to hurt less.

* * *

“I think I’m gonna ask her out,” Bucky says. “You think? I don’t have a mark. I don’t think she does. Makes sense, right?”

Kate’s mouth goes dry. “Yeah.” She forces herself to say it. “Yeah, Darcy’s great. I bet you two would have a lot of fun.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Steve just got this weird look when I asked him what he thought.”

“How could you tell?” Kate resolutely shelves her freak-out for later. “Steve gets weird looks when I say _anything_.”

“Well, that’s because you always have weird ideas,” Bucky states.

Kate shrugs but doesn’t argue the point.

The door slams in the gym and two heads whip around to see who it is.

Darcy.

“Guess it’s a sign,” Bucky smiles wryly at Kate, before frowning a little and pressing his fingertips to the bicep part of his metal arm.

“Why do you do that, Barnes?” Darcy says, plopping down next to them and starting to stretch. “You touch that same spot all the time. You’re going to tarnish the metal or something.”

“Dunno,” he shrugs.

“It’s not silver,” Kate adds. “It’s not going to tarnish.”

“Is that Hawkeye info or rich girl info?” Darcy regards her curiously. “Like, did you and Clint steal priceless silver and not tell us, or did you steal priceless silver from your dad?”

“Why do you think I’m a thief?”

“Um,” Darcy stares at her. “Really? This from the woman who _daily_ steals my coffee?”

Kate gives Darcy the most impassive look she can.

“You and Clint should have a resting murderface competition,” Darcy says after a moment. “Jesus, that’s a terrifying expression.”

“I learned from the master. Well, you kids have fun,” Kate stands, using Darcy’s shoulder for leverage.

“Nooo,” Darcy moans, “No, Kate, stay, Natasha’s nicer to me when you stay.”

“That’s because she’s meaner to _me_ ,” Kate points out. “And Tony has explodey arrows for me to try.”

“You do not need explosives,” Darcy mutters. “Fine. I hate you forever.”

“Ugh!” Kate puts her hand over her heart. “You _wound_ me, Darcy.”

She turns and waves at them before she leaves, and Bucky gives her an uber-cheesy thumbs up.

She makes sure she smiles until she gets to the elevator.

* * *

“Kate?” Bucky’s voice is soft as he curls his hand around her shoulder. “Hey, Hawkeye. I missed you.”

“You were gone for a week, Bucky. Seriously?”

His hand trails from her shoulder to her chin, urging her to look at him, something catching in her throat.

“A little longer than a week, it feels like. Soulmate,” he’s huge, all around her, solid and sturdy and Bucky, and she kisses him—and god, it’s a dream, she knows it it and she wants to wake up immediately and never—

“Kate?” Bucky shakes her. “Hawkeye, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

She bolts upright from where she’s slumped on one of the tables. “Fine, I’m fine,” she scrubs frantically at her face. “Just, ah. Weird dream.”

Bucky makes a show of looking around the room. “This isn’t really a good place to sleep. What with the noise and the food.”

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

“I get that,” Bucky slides into the seat next to her. “Anything I can do to help?”

“No,” Kate lies.

* * *

“Thank God,” Darcy says as soon as the elevator doors close. “The Bucky Brigade. Honestly, he’s been a bear for the past week. Can you go talk to him?”

Steve side-eyes Kate before going, “Sure, Darce. You know where he is?”

“Punching things. Where else? And oh, look, you’re here!” Darcy grins toothily as the doors open. “Now go. Make him be less grumpy.

“Hawkeye!” Steve barks out as Darcy shoves him from the elevator. “On my six!”

“Futz off, Cap,” Kate grouses, following him. “I’ve had your damn six for a week. _You_ have your six.”

Steve rounds on her. “Look, I know this is hard—“

“No you _don’t_! You don’t have any idea what this is like!”

Steve glares at her before he deflates. “You’re right. I don’t have any idea what this is like. I do know that you need each other. He needs you. He just doesn’t know why. Just—talk to him, please.”

Air hisses from Kate like a deflating balloon before she turns on her heel and slams through the doors to the training room, where Bucky is working at a punching bag with single-minded ferocity.

“Hey, Barnes.”

He freezes for an instant before ignoring her.

“We’re back,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Heard you were in a shitty mood about it.”

Bucky hits the bag a few times. “Would have been nice to know you were going.”

“Seemed rude to interrupt date night just to be like, hey, bud, going out of town for a few days.”

“Three weeks isn’t a few days.”

More punching.

“Bucky, why is this such a big deal?”

“I don’t know, all right?” he shouts, then steps away from the bag, taking a deep breath. “I just know I feel better that you’re here, and I didn’t like not knowing where you were, that you might be in danger and there wouldn’t have been a thing I could do about it.”

Something clutches at Kate’s throat as he peers at her though his hair. “I can’t figure out _why_. I know you’re capable of protecting yourself. I just—“ he steps back, hitting the bag. “I don’t know.”

“It was probably just your Steve-worry bleeding over into me,” she suggests, hoping he’ll deny it.

“Maybe,” he shrugs, shakes his hair out of his eyes. “Probably.”

That hurts more than it should.

“I’m lying, Bishop. I know when I’m worried for Steve and when I’m worried for you.”

“You’re a dick.”

Bucky shrugs, _yeah, so_?

“Next time I have to save the world, I’ll make sure to take your feelings into consideration.”

Bucky stares at her for a moment and then he’s on her faster than she can blink, fingers feather-light at her neck, her sides, her stomach.

Bucky flings her over his shoulder and she can’t help the scream of laughter as he tickles her more.

“What the hell?” Darcy says from the entrance of the gym.

“Seconded,” Steve says.

“Thirded,” Sam adds.

“Oh, hey guys. A bird got trapped in here. I had to catch it to help it escape.”

“You are an _asshole_ ,” Kate says between great gulps of air.

“Yeah, but I’m _your_ asshole,” he points out.

Darcy and Steve high-five.

They’re _all_ assholes.

* * *

Kate is doing a pretty good job of convincing herself that she’s Super Duper Fine, right up until the annual Stark Gala.

Stark throws a great party, or Pepper does. Good food, strong drinks, plenty of quality music that Steve can actually dance to. Kate’s grateful for that last one, since the Steve in question has taken it as his sworn duty to spin her around the floor for every dance she’s standing by herself—which is most of them, since Clint hates dancing.

It would be nice but for the fact that Steve is huge and has huge feet that keep stomping all over her much smaller and less sturdily shod feet.

“Dammit, Steve,” she tugs him to a stop. “If you’re going to insist on doing this,” she stands on his feet, careful not to let her heels dig into his nice shoes, “Then let’s just admit our feet are going to collide and do it this way.”

“I’m trying to be nice.”

“I appreciate the niceness. I don’t appreciate the crushed toes—“

“This punk giving you trouble, ma’am?”

“Kate thinks I can’t dance.”

“That’s a fact, Steve,” Bucky claps him on the shoulder. “Which is why I’m cutting in. Ma’am, would you do me the honor?”

Kate looks from Bucky’s openly eager expression, to Steve’s shrewd smirk.

“The tribe has spoken,” she tells Steve.

“I hate that show,” he starts before Bucky elbows him out of the way.

She shouldn’t have done this. It’s a fight to stay a friendly distance instead of an intimate one, to keep her hands where they’re supposed to be. The silence as they shuffle around awkwardly is stifling.

“Feel like I haven’t talked to you in forever,” Bucky starts.

“Two days is hardly forever,” Kate points out. “You interrupted our sparring session to make out with Darcy. I mean, I think. I assumed.”

“Oh. Right.” Bucky goes beet-red, and there’s a joke in there somewhere about Communism if only she cared enough.

“I mean, I’m not trying to cramp your life, just. You know. Feel free to tell me to clear out next time you do that.

Bucky looks at her, and it feels like he’s seeing through all the bullshit and the peppy attitude and cutting right down to the things she can’t let him see. Like he can see it in neon lights over her head, _Hi, I’m Kate Bishop, and I’m responsible for my soulmate being captured and tortured and brainwashed into a prolific Russian assassin, how’s your day been?_

And it’s so predictable it’s cliché, what happens next, the way his eyes narrow and drop down to her chest, where her Mark is, and the guilty way he looks anywhere but at her, the way she wants to scream _you idiot, you can look, these are_ your _words! Don’t you remember me? Even a little?_

She never does, because it’s not his fault.

“You kids have fun now,” Kate says, and Darcy’s eyes narrow in a very familiar I’m-not-buying-what-you’re-selling way, but she drags Bucky away at any rate.

Darcy is good for Bucky. Bucky is good for Darcy. Doesn’t mean that Kate has to witness how good they are for each other.

Right up until Bucky and Darcy dancing cheek-to-cheek, Darcy looking pinup-perfect with her hand resting on Bucky’s bicep.

There’s a part of her that’s glad he’s found someone. A very small part. The larger portion is howling about how that should be her dance—that is _her_ Bucky—and all of a sudden, she can’t take it anymore. She’s done, and she can’t stay.

There’s a duffel of emergency cash at her room in the Tower; she takes that and leaves her evening gown, making sure to put the special-made Billy/David baffler chip into her phone so Stark can’t trace her.

A bag of money, a bag of clothes, two quivers and a bow thrown into her back seat, a note for Clint left on her counter, door unlocked, and she’s gone.

* * *

LA is still not home/home. Marcus and Finch are kind enough to let her crash at their place for a few days; during which time she decides to buy a trailer. She goes back to doing yoga on the roof, she finds a few clients who need a part-time superhero.

She relearns how to breathe, how to not look around every corner hoping Bucky will, somehow, magically remember her.

She’d cried for three days. She’d let herself have that. And on day four, she’d woken up, took a good look at herself in the mirror, and swore she wouldn’t cry any more.

She’s trying to live up to that. Ten minutes in the morning; if she’s going to lose it she’s gotten minutes in the morning, sometimes she needs them, sometimes not. Sometimes she needs more than ten minutes, in more than the morning—but she’s trying, and someone should give her points for that, at least.

* * *

Okay, and honestly, she’s in LA for an hour before she realizes she’s in the wrong part of the state, and she gets back in her car and heads north.

* * *

Kate hasn’t been to Santa Barbara since mom died. One of those things; dad had never been big on mom’s side of the family.

The retirement community is nicer than Kate’s whole building in Brooklyn. Lots of palm trees and stucco, terracotta shingles and the California special of pebbles instead of yards.

This feels weird, and she doesn’t want to do it, but—she knocks.

“Hmm? What? Who’s there? I got my pistol on me—“

“Seriously, Jimmy-boy?” she can’t hold it back. “What if I’d been some cute little old lady asking you to play bridge?”

She tries the handle and it’s unlocked—of course it is—and coms face to face with Jim Morita.

“If it isn’t one of my ungrateful grandchildren,” he faux-mopes. “Come to extort me.”

Kate rolls her eyes at him.

“Did you just call me Jimmy-boy, little Hawkeye?”

Kate’s smile is a little sad, but still there. “Hey, Grampa.”

“Oh, come on then,” he says, a little too loud (exactly what Kate needs, another person who doesn’t wear their hearing aids). “There’s a place ‘round the corner that injects potatoes with cheese and fries ’em. I’ll order some and you can get me caught up on what I’ve missed.”

* * *

She drives up to see him every few days. It’s nice to have someone to share all of this weirdness with; it’s nice to have her grandfather shake his fist in a why-I-aughta sort of way when she tells him about Bucky and Darcy, even though that mess is as much Kate’s fault as it is either of theirs.

It’s just nice to have someone who is in her corner, and her corner only.

He doesn’t get to lecture her on personal safety anymore, though.

* * *

Kate hears the car, hears the footsteps in the sand, doesn’t think enough of it to stop doing yoga until she can feel the eyes on her.

Deep breath in.

Let it out.

“Who’s dead?” She opens her eyes.

“Nobody’s dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive,” Bucky makes a show of looking around. “So. This is where you ran off to.”

“Apparently. How did you find me?”

“I looked.”

“Did you.”

“You know, I have some experience tracking people. In case you missed that.”

“I didn’t. I just didn’t figure _you’d_ come looking for me.”

"You _left,_ " Bucky accuses her. “No note. No word, no explanation—“

“I left a note—“

“Not for _me_ ,” he crosses his arms across his chest. “For Clint. For Steve. You just _left—_ “

"I did. I had to get out. I didn’t mean to hurt you—or anyone—but—" her voice cracks around all the things she can’t say. “I had to.”

“And you’re not going to tell me why?”

“I can’t. It’s not something I can tell. It’s not something you’d believe.”

He stares at her, the weight of his judgement bearing down on her.

“Is everything okay? I’m sure you came here for a reason.”

"You took something of mine," Bucky says after a few moments, looking up at her pointedly.

“Oh,” Kate plucks at the hem of the too-big sweatshirt she’s wearing—the beach is chilly in the mornings—and the sleeves fall past her elbows to cover her hands. The left cuff is chewed up from the metal of Bucky’s wrist. “I guess I did.”

He rolls his eyes at her and then parkours up next to her.

“You’d better not collapse my roof,” she mutters. “I don’t think my insurance covers acts of supersoldier superheroes.”

Bucky tilts his head back, basking in the sun looking for all the world like an alley cat. “If I do, we’ll break into Stark’s Malibu place and convince JARVIS to give us some of his toys to weld it back together.”

“Well,” Kate fights the urge to put her head on his shoulder, instead pressing on to her toes to gain an extra few inches, stretching. “As long as there’s a plan.”

Bucky plops down next to her yoga mat and doesn’t look like he’s about to move, so she finishes her last few poses, trying to center herself.

“So why did you leave?” Bucky asks again once she’s out of Child’s Pose.

“Because I asked someone to make me a promise I knew they couldn’t keep. I didn’t have a right to ask in the first place, and I sure as hell don’t have a right to be sad about it. There’s a few layers of self-loathing there, and I thought maybe I could work through it better if I wasn’t surrounded by people who know me.” She shakes her head. “Sorry. That—probably didn’t make a lot of sense. There was a situation, I removed myself from it. I’m sure everyone is going to be happier for it. Or less awkward. Maybe.”

Bucky’s expression is calculating, but not in a deadly way—the way you look when you realize you had the wrong word in the crossword puzzle, and now you’ve got the correct one and everything falls into place.

It makes her a little uncomfortable.

“Come on,” she stands, offers her hands to haul Bucky to his feet. “Looks like a storm’s coming in.”

“You know, I didn’t just come out here because you stole my favorite sweatshirt.”

“I didn’t know it was your favorite, Jesus, Bucky—“ which is true, all she’d known was that it was comfy and it smelled like him, and yeah, okay, that’s a little creepy, she can admit her faults. “What else did I take with me? A hair tie? An ice pack?”

"My words."

 

 

 

Kate forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“Your—what?” She says, not sure if she heard correctly.

His hand reaches for her, stalling halfway to her chest, before Bucky looks at her and his fingers finally press against where the hoodie covers his words.

“These,” his voice is rough.

Kate _officially_ doesn’t know how to breathe anymore.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He leans towards her—all she needs is a few inches and his lips will—

“What was I going to say that you would have believed?” she forces her eyes away from his hand on her, away from his lips and to his eyes.

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

“Yeah,” her smile stretches across her face, thin and bitter. “That’s what I came up with, too.”

“But you—“ he finally manages. “Darcy—“

“The only person who knows we’re soulmates is Steve,” she says. “I didn’t—look, I want you to be happy, all right? If it’s not with me, it’s not with me.” She rubs her hand across her eyes, staring out at the ocean.

“Christ, Katie.”

His hand drops from her collarbone and she wants to cry out, snatch his hand back—except she’d grab his left hand and hold it to his words and grip the metal bicep where hers once were because she still knows exactly where they would be.

“Kate,” his voice is softer, more intimate as she looks back at him, allowing herself this moment, just this one, to look at him, to really drink him in in a way she hasn’t been able to since she got back.

She lets herself look, lets herself _want_ , lets herself feel the absolute, bone-deep _need_ she has for him, before stepping back.

“Bucky,” she tightens her jaw to keep her voice even as something inside her cracks. “It’s fine. You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?” he looks genuinely confused.

“This whole—making nice with your soulmate thing. It’s fine. I get it. You’re different, you want different things, you’ve moved on—“

“Hawkeye,” he sounds utterly exasperated. “What are you _talking_ about?”

“I—“ she falters, caught in his gaze again. “Um.”

“Kate,” he approaches her again, sliding into her space like he belongs there. “I—“ his face changes, looking more shrewd. “Can I see?” His fingers tap at her collarbone. “My memory is a little blurry.”

“Yeah, okay,” she agrees without even thinking, stripping down to her bright purple sports bra.

Bucky reaches out and his metal fingers trace his handwriting on her skin and it’s all she can do to not grab at him, to not come apart with how good it feels to have him touch her, touch her _there_ , and she can’t stop her own hands from clutching at his left arm, fingers sliding along the metal where her words should be.

“ _Christ_ ,” he swears again, and the next thing she knows is Bucky’s lips on hers, his metal fingers splayed over her mark, his free hand curled around the base of her skull.

Kate makes a noise, and she’s not sure if it’s one of pain or joy or frustration and Bucky’s tongue is in her mouth. It’s too late, anyway—she shattered into a million pieces the moment he touched her mark, and it’s going to take her a very long time to put herself back together regardless of if she kisses him back or not; she opts to kiss back.

Kate pulls him close by his arm, tangles her hand in his hair and it’s not close enough, not nearly close enough. Some part of Bucky seems to agree because his metal hand takes over supporting her head and then his free hand is rough-skin and so hot at her bare waist and he _moans_ into her mouth.

God, _Bucky_ —

There’s the sound of a car starting and Kate rips herself away from him. They must not have noticed her making out with a stranger on her roof, because this is exactly the sort of thing that your neighbors honk at you about.

She forces herself to step away from him, two steps, three, her feet brushing the sweatshirt that started this. Kate fumbles for it with her toes, picking it up without taking her eyes off of Bucky, because if this has to end, she doesn’t want to waste a single second not looking at him.

She has to lose one, though, to get the sweatshirt back on, an added barrier between them, and when she looks at him again he looks—hurt, somehow.

“What?” the word is harsher than she intends.  She aches for him; wants his hands back on her and his mouth, wants to card her fingers through his long hair. “Why do you look like that?”

“You’re scared of me.” It’s not a question, but it is wrong.

“Scared of you?” Kate gapes at him. “What? No.”

“Then why—“

“Because I want you, you big—grahh!” Kate throws her hands up and growls. “Just because you and Darcy aren’t soulmates doesn’t make it okay for us to—whatever, while you’re dating her! She’s my friend!”

“This is about Darcy?”

“Oh my God, Bucky,” Kate snaps, swiping the overlarge cuff at her eyes, trying to stem the flow before she starts crying in earnest. “ _Yes,_ it’s about the woman that you’re dating, which I am _totally fine_ with, by the way. It’s fine. Go be happy with her. You know.”

“Kate,” Bucky closes the space between them, “Darcy and I aren’t—that’s over.”

“Bucky, I swear to God if you’re—“

“Look,” he interrupts. “I don’t know what—Darcy and I were never—I knew something was missing, and I knew it wasn’t her. She knew it, too. We weren’t—it wasn’t serious.”

Kate is honestly unsure if this knowledge is helpful or not.

“Kate. I missed you. I didn’t know it was you, but I did. I worried about you and I didn’t know why,” he looks into her eyes as he says it, earnest and open. “I think—remember when we met, after SHIELD fell? You and Eli? I’ve always known you were important, I just didn’t know why. I missed you _every damn day_. Still do.”

She takes a deep breath that shudders as she releases it. “How?”

“Howard didn’t really ever throw anything away. Tony happened upon a letter—“ something in her face must give her away, because Bucky smirks at her, a little 1940s Bucky showing through. “Not just that, though. I’d get flashes, glimpses of things. I thought I was going crazy when we’d spar.”

“Sparring?”

“Doll,” for the first time he looks exasperated. “You. On top of me?”

It takes Kate stupidly long to get what he’s saying and when she does she flushes.

“Thought it was fantasies run amok,” he sounds casual but he isn’t as his hand lands on her shoulder. “Didn’t know what to do with ‘em.”

“Bucky—“

He drops his hand to his side. “Sorry. I just—after so long, I just wanna touch you. A lot. I’ll keep my hands to myself. Lookin’ suits me just fine, too.”

And he shoves his hands deep into his pockets, which is more or less exactly the opposite of what she wants his hands to be doing.

“There was this box of stuff Howard had—your letter, a letter from him, your SHIELD file, your scarf—you know, smell is the strongest sense tied to memory?”

Kate understands what Bucky is saying, it’s just—the words aren’t quite coalescing into a scenario that makes sense, unless she’s dreaming—

“Oh, no,” she steps away from him. “No. No, no, nononono.” She presses her hand hard into her chest, because God, it _hurts_.

“Don’t cry, Kate,” Bucky moves faster than she does, grabbing her shoulders and tugging her from the edge of the trailer. “Kate—“

“I don’t want to wake up,” she shakes her head. “Because I wake up and I lose you all over again, Bucky, I want this to stop—“

He swears.

But—

“What did you just say?”

Bucky looks a little chagrined. “It wasn’t very polite.”

“It wasn’t English.”

“It was Russian.”

“I don’t speak Russian,” Kate frowns. “I don’t—I don’t know any Russian—“

He looks at her, perplexed, then grins and looks her right in the eye.

“Ya lyublyu tebya vsey dushoy,” he says, rubbing his thumbs through the tear-tracks on her cheeks.

She doesn’t care, he’s crying, too. It’s a group-crying event. And she doesn’t know what to do, she wants to just look at him, she wants to hold him as close as she possibly can, she wants to kiss him again—

“It’s you, it’s really you?”

“Really me, Hawkeye,” he presses his forehead to hers.

She jerks back.

“Bucky, I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I tried to tell you—I wrote a letter—“

“Kate,” Bucky sighs, lacing their fingers together. “I told you. Tony found it—and a letter from Howard, apologizing for not giving it to us.”

“Right. I vaguely remember you saying that.”

“Am I that distracting?” he smiles at her, a little exasperated. “I think I scared the shit outta Steve, nearly passed out and then took off—I might aught’ta call him.”

“Bucky,” and it’s really Bucky, she couldn’t _dream_ this, in her dreams Bucky is a _safe and rational_ human being with half a clue how to not try and kill himself, “Did you find out and come here right after—?”

“I may have stolen one of Stark’s planes last night.”

“Bucky!” Kate shakes him. It’s harder than it should be, since he’s all muscle. “Did you fly overnight in a stolen plane? You—you idiot! What if something had happened to you? What if you’d flown into a mountain? What if—what if—” Kate’s brain quietly shuts off.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says into her hair, pulling her close. “’m sorry.”

Kate doesn’t know how long they simply cling to each other; long enough that the storm rolling in is what breaks them apart.

* * *

“Do you have anything to change into?” Kate asks as they drip all over her nice laminate flooring.

“I told you: letter, memories, plane, Kate. That was the order. Wasn’t time for packing.”

“Well, we can throw your clothes into the dryer and go shopping when they’re done,” she decides.

They wrestle with Bucky’s shirt and soaked jacket for a moment before he flings it triumphantly at the door and grins down at her.

There’s plenty of room in her trailer but they’re pressed together like there isn’t.

“Hi,” she breathes. Even soaking wet, Bucky radiates heat like a furnace.

She doesn’t want to rush him, doesn’t want to pressure him into—

Bucky drags his mouth along her neck, sucking at the rain trailing down her skin, groaning when she shudders.

“Don’t wanna,” she loses track of the thought as Bucky’s tongue burns against her. “Wanna rush you, oh God Bucky—“

Her fingers twist into his hair, wringing water onto her floor, “Bucky, it’s okay, we don’t have to—“

He lifts his head and gazes down at her, droplets of rain clinging to his eyelashes. “Kate,” he says, his voice rough in a way that she hasn’t heard in, oh, _ages_. “I can’t tell you how much that means to me. Let me clear things up. I _want_ to.”

His hands trail underneath the sweatshirt one _fucking_ cold, the other so _hot_ , and her skin feels too tight as Bucky says, “Do _you_ want to?”

“Yes yes _yes_ ,” the words break out of her as she fumbles with his pants, struggling to no avail with the soaked denim, abandoning them in favor of pressing her lips to his, sloppy and needy and desperate.

She wants to sob, she’s going to break apart with the force of how much she _loves_ him—

His hand is cool and still on her neck. “Easy, doll. Easy. Ain’t going anywhere.”

“Don’t believe you,” her voice is thick with all the things she doesn’t believe anymore, shaky as she realizes that part of this is fear—fear that this is it, this is the last time, the _only_ chance she has—

“Gimmie some time to prove it,” he strokes his thumb across her chin. “A couple years, maybe.”

He presses their foreheads together, then puts his palms flat against her sides. Not seductive but calming, skin-to-skin reassurance.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere. We got time.”

She lets herself believe him. Lets him kiss her gentle and slow, his fingers playing along her ribs. She keeps her touch soft, doesn’t grab or clutch at him.

They have time. They have all the time in the world.

* * *

She hesitates, unsure, and then she remembers with a flash of clarity so sharp it’s like a ball bat to the head, of Bucky stretched out just like this under her.

“Kate?”

“You—reminds me of Italy,” she chokes out, feeling so emotionally battered she can’t even process if that’s a good thing to say.

Bucky looks confused for a moment, his eyes following her hand down to where it’s splayed across his chest before sitting up suddenly, gripping her waist to shift her.

“First time you told me you loved me,” he says softly, questioningly. “The first time I said it back?”

She nods.

His fingers trail her words. “Correct me if I’m wrong. But I said that I told myself if I ever got out of that Hydra base that I’d tell you I loved you once for every day I was a prisoner.”

“You did,” Kate’s voice is scratchy.

“Seventy years,” he says. “Twenty-five thousand days. More, actually.”

She never used to have this much trouble breathing.

“I love you,” Bucky says, kissing her chin, rocking up into her. “Everybody in New York misses you—I love you—but did you want to stay out here? I love you. I could get used to the beach—unless you want some time alone. I love you, by the way. I can head back, I can stay here—tell me what you need.”

His hand drifts down, his thumb teasing at her. “Did you need _this_?”

“Buck— _Bucky_ —,” her hands stroke and squeeze his upper arms.

“Got you, Katie,” he murmurs into her ear. “Always got you.”

Maybe it’s been too long; maybe it’s just that it’s Bucky, hers, always _hers_ but that’s what does it, her orgasm rolling through her like wildfire, Bucky’s arm cool against her hot skin, trailing across her skin, cupping her breast, his other hand urging her to arch her back so he can get his mouth on her words, _biting_ them, and it’s too much. Kate muffles whatever noise escapes her against Bucky’s shaggy head, and she feels Bucky’s cry against her skin as she unravels, blinding white light, electricity and fire—

* * *

“I need—“ her eyes drift to the clock. “To get moving, I’m going to be late—“

“Late?”

“I do have a job, you know. Following people, tracking stuff, should only be a few hours—” She pauses in the middle of yanking on a shirt. “Are you going to be here when I get back?”

“Do you want me to be?”

Kate sprawls across him, wriggling up to his face, kissing his scruffy chin, his cheek, his forehead. “Yes,” she finally says. “Definitely yes.”

“Then I’ll be here.”

* * *

Bucky isn’t there when she gets back, but there is a box at her door addressed to him with the Stark Industries logo on it.

“I tried to be fast,” she hears him say as he walks up behind her, waving a bag of food. “What’s that?”

“Don’t know. It’s for you.”

They switch; Kate with the food and Bucky with the box.

Bucky rips it open—inside is a tablet and a boxy, high-tech looking cube that Kate can’t make heads or tails of.

She’s shoving pad Thai in her mouth when the tablet rings.

“Ugh, Stark,” Kate answers it. “What do you want?”

“Where’s Barnes? Where’s my damn plane?”

“I don’t know.”

“Safe!” Bucky yells from her kitchen.

“Oh, right, _that’s_ comforting.”

“Stark, what do you want?”

“I wanted to offer my congratulations,” he snaps, not sounding very congratulatory. “And a gift. Because, you know, reasons.”

“No. I don’t know.” Kate glares at Tony through the screen. “What’s your game?”

“No game! I just—am—,” Stark grits his teeth. “Taking—responsibility—for the pain I have caused you.”

That was not what she’d been expecting.

“Okay,” Tony barrels right past whatever just happened. “Barnes. You remember your words?”

“Of course I do.”

“Right, so, Hawkeye, you’re going to see an app opening up. I need you to write those words on there.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow; Kate shrugs and writes the words on the tablet.

The words shrink, enlarge, settle, and the cube lights up and emits a beep.

“Do you want to tell me what we’re doing?” Kate finally asks.

“Barnes lost his words. I’m giving them back to him. You. Both of you. Plus extras, because I’m such a nice guy.”

“Extras?”

“So remember that sensitivity circuitry stuff we were working on before you stole my plane?”

Kate gives Bucky a side-eye and he doesn’t even have the decency to look sheepish.

“The printer should be printing. Is it printing?”

“Yup,” Kate confirms. “On a transparency?”

“Yeah. Now, you need to clean the metal off where you’re going to put the words on with the alcohol swab I’ve been so kind to include—“

“Got it,” Kate sits on the table, one of her feet on Bucky’s leg so that he can rest his metal elbow on her knee.

“Hey, Hawkeye. Did you really break my old man’s nose?” Tony says as she scrubs at Bucky’s arm.

Bucky snorts, and the printer sounds again.

“That means it’s done,” Tony informs them. “Okay, so you’re going to peel the words off and put them on his arm.”

“Like a temporary tattoo?”

“Sure, Bishop. Whatever. Now, Barnes,” Tony says. “This is going to ramp up the sensitivity in your arm. It’s still not going to send you pain signals, but you’ll be able to feel more than just hot or cold and grip.”

Kate presses the words against the metal, right where they should be, right where they were, using the swab to make sure there aren’t any bubbles.

“Done,” she sits back.

“It doesn’t feel any different.”

“Give it a minute. Jesus. Impatient.”

Kate slides her hand into Bucky’s metal one and pulls it up to her lips, kissing the cool knuckles absently.

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh,” he says, eyes going wide. “ _Oh._ ”

“Huh? Huh? Uh-huh?” Tony looks insufferably self-satisfied. “Am I the best, or am I the best?”

Bucky’s ignoring Tony, brushing a metal finger across her collarbone, down her words— _oh_ —metal thumb across her chin, dragging her lower lip down, still cold but the look on Bucky’s face—

“Thanks, Tony,” she says faintly, reaching over to close the laptop, “we’ll call later, or something—“

“Happy honeymoon—“ he says just before the connection cuts off.

Kate wraps her hand around her words, back where they belong, and squeezes.

**Author's Note:**

> The Russian is supposed to be "I love you with all my soul"  
> no idea if it actually is  
> let me know any major mistakes


End file.
